Palaven's Visitor
by SheegothBait
Summary: When I suddenly am pulled from Earth by a freak accident, I find myself plunged into the Mass Effect universe. Knowing how it will end, can I save a certain Spectre from his fate? Perhaps...if I can survive Palaven... Alternate storyline. (Yes I will keep all the characters)
1. Welcome to Palaven

My skin burns. Am I too hot? The surface beneath me is hard. I open my eyes…and for a moment think I'm dreaming.

Turians. Everywhere. The aliens I'd only ever seen in my favorite computer game, all around me, in true flesh and blood. Staring at me as though they've seen a ghost. I get very slowly to my feet, my eyes sweeping around. A town, perhaps? Certainly some sort of dwellings, more likely shops. Not in human architectural style. They seem to like plants, as various species climb down the sides of some of the shops. What happened to bring me, a simple author, so suddenly and harshly into contact with these aliens? As my eyes sweep the "people", I spot a turian with cobalt blue markings. Like Garrus.

"Excuse m…" My sentence is cut off by the smash of breaking glass. And suddenly the freeze-frame resumes, bringing a roar of noise and motion down upon me. One of them lunges at me, quick as a snake. I barely avoid his three-fingered grasp, more out of luck than anything, stumbling backwards. Hands seize me from behind, gripping my upper arms so hard I'm sure it leaves bruises. I gasp as though I have been doused in ice-water, then freeze on the spot. I can't move a muscle out of sheer fear. The alien twists my arms behind my back, shoves me to my knees. I whimper in pain. The position he (at least I'm assuming it's a he) has me in is very painful. My shoulders are already screaming for mercy. I dare not say a word, though, or risk the wrath of my captor.

The quick step of agile feet approaches. More hands, more three-fingered hands, take hold of me. There is a brief exchange in a language I do not know. I hold very still, feeling the sun's rays burning into my skin, but when I feel the first manacle snap around my wrist, I panic. I have never been handcuffed before, something I'm very glad of, but from descriptions in books I would guess it's not pleasant. Now, with my head shoved down, my arms painfully twisted, and my knees horribly sore from the scrape of the brickwork on skin, I realize it's even less pleasant than the descriptions. I struggle a little, but then my guard yanks on my wrist, extracting a yelp of pain from me. He growls and locks the other cuff around my left wrist, then pulls me to my feet. I shout at the unhearing crowd, terribly panicked.

"What's going on? Please! Help me!"

I get a sharp thwack on the side of the head for that, and a dangerous snarl. I am shoved into the back of their vehicle, which is separated from the driver and has no windows. As they take me away, one question echoes through my mind, over and over:

_What will happen to me? What will happen to me? What will happen…._


	2. Prophet

My head is spinning from the speed of events. I am half-convinced this is all still a dream, and that I'll wake up safe in my own bed in my apartment in Michigan. Because accepting that this is real is insane. These sorts of things just don't happen to people. No one in the United States or anyone across the world, for that matter, has ever been sucked into an alternate universe, let alone one populated by my favorite characters turned hostile. What little I know of where I am only serves to muddy the waters of my thoughts even more, throwing them deeper into confusion. I try to take a calming breath, attempt to sit up, which crushes my bound hands. I wince and do my best to pull my thoughts together.

One: my skin was burning when I got here, so that means that the planet has a high radiation index. Two: it's populated by turians who apparently hate human beings. So why didn't the guards shoot me? _Think! What do you know about the Mass Effect universe? Hmmm…. Turians and humans at least co-existed in ME1. I must have gotten stuck in the time period during the First Contact Wars... This is NOT going to turn out well. _

I swallow hard, my palms sweaty, and tug at my handcuffs. I don't know how to escape them. I'm no Houdini…or Shepard. Even if I were to escape the restraints, there would be no way a stick figure like me could bring down two fully-grown armored turian males with guns. And even _if _I _did _manage to bring them down, where would I go? I would get cooked alive by the radiation likely before I found a way off…Palaven? I give a helpless little smile, knowing that I'm not going anywhere. I'm stuck where I am until my captors see fit to release me. _Or decide to kill you, _says a nasty little voice in the back of my head. I will it away, swallowing hard again, but it buzzes in the back of my mind, an invisible insect, bothering irritating, unnerving.

The car (or futuristic alien equivalent of such) slows to a stop. The back door flies open as if my guards tried to rip it off its hinges, and one of them reaches for me, fastening a taloned hand around my arm. He jerks me out of the car, almost dislocating my shoulder. I yelp in pain, my feet scrabbling at the pavement before I find purchase and straighten. I'm forced into a jog as the turian moves forward at a speed-walk, not bothering to see if I can keep up, trotting me through a doorway in a plain building. He forces me to keep moving, keeps pressure on my arm, walks onward so fast I have barely time to take in stark hallways branching out before they whip past me.

"What's going _on?_" I ask desperately, begging for answers. The only response is another threatening growl. _He can't understand you. You're speaking in English. He knows only whatever he's been taught, just like you. _My guard catches me around the wrist, jolting me to a stop in front of a recessed door. He unlocks the handcuffs, keeping a firm hold on me, while the other opens the door. Once the shackles have been removed, he pushes me into the cell.

"Let me talk to Garrus!" The sentence comes out almost as a whine. The guard pauses, turns his head slowly back, digesting this last word. I sense recognition.

"You know? Garrus Vakarian? You know who he is, right?"

The guard gives me a piercing look, his mandibles flared slightly. I can't understand turian body language, but I'm willing to bet I said something he didn't like. I take a step back, wary. He gives a dry snort, spins on the spot, and leaves the cell, the door sliding shut behind him.

Alone now, I look around, shoving my hands into my pockets. There's not much to see, but I notice two things. The cell is remarkably clean and not cramped. There is room for me to spend my restless energy pacing and thinking about how to get out of this mess I have found myself in. And then the full brunt of the realization hits me: I'm in the Mass Effect universe.

I sit down hard, flat on my backside, and stare at the wall, stunned. If everything plays out, as in the games, then I know what's going to happen. I could stop the Reaper wars from ever occurring if I played my cards right. But if I do that, what would happen? How much should I reveal? The knowledge I hold could save millions of lives…or destroy every sentient creature within the galaxy. And would anyone believe me if I told them?


	3. Unanswerable questions

When the shock finally wears off, I realize that I'm very bored. Though the door of the cell is transparent, like a plexiglass window, there's nothing for me to see or do other than draw aimless lines on the floor, my back to the door. I try to form pictures, but without anything to draw with, I can't see any permanent marks and soon give up the task as hopeless. I wonder if this is what jail feels like. Much different, I conclude. At least it's quiet and I'm being left alone. No, it's more like the experience of someone in solitary confinement, but decidedly…cleaner. Deliberate tactic, or random coincidence? Will they even have the same process for judging my culpability for the accident, and how far will they go to believe they have the truth from me? How swift will be their judgment, and how harsh? My stomach clenches uncomfortably, and I put a hand to it, wincing.

A sharp tapping sound reaches my ears. I turn to see two turians looking in on me. One, with white markings on his face, stands stiffly at attention, his expression tough and unmerciful, almost scowling. The other, with green markings, stoops a little, peering interestedly at me. He beckons me closer. Wary, but not afraid, I stand and approach.

"Can you hear me?" His perfect English startles me.

"Y-yes."

"I'm going to be your translator, as Veras," he gestures at the silent, scowling turian, "can't speak English very well. He wants to ask you some questions."

"Okay." _Don't reveal any more than you have to. …But this is a golden opportunity. You could just tell them everything you know, lay the evidence out on the table….They'll probably either laugh at you or shoot you. Then again, they'll probably shoot you anyway…_

I glance at the scowling turian. If everything I know about them is correct, then eye contact is a sign of respect. Still, it's hard to look into those piercing eyes, especially when he has his teeth slightly bared. It looks as though he's about to lunge and bite me. For the first time, I'm glad I'm on the opposite side of a solid wall. After a minute, his mandibles flatten back against his jaws, and his eyes lose some of their fire. He growls something, which is spit back to me in English.

"Hm. Interesting response." Veras begins pacing. "You are respectful and apparently not afraid of us. Interesting indeed." His gaze settles back on my face, burning its way into my head, as though looking for evidence to mistakenly convict me. I bite my tongue. If they think I'm allied with the human military, I will be shot. "What have you to say for yourself in that matter?"

"I…found a few files containing turain data. But it didn't matter, because I was never expecting to end up here. When you arrested me, I was terrified you'd shoot me."

"The only reason you _weren't _shot is that you weren't carrying an obvious weapon. You also _froze _when you got grabbed, something a soldier would never do. You are inexperienced in combat situations and seemed totally confused, hence why you are standing there instead of lying in a morgue. But that's not important. What matters is my question: _How did you get here?_" His eyes bore into my brain, but like a snake before its charmer, I am powerless to look away.

"I swear to you I don't know. I don't belong here. I'm from the United States. 2018."

Veras' pupils widen in shock, and he pulls back a little. A barked conversation in turian ensues. When they finally stop talking to one another, he turns to face me, his scowl back and more pronounced.

"You say you aren't lying. How is that possible? The First Contact wars began in 2157. Either you're _much _older than you look, or you're _not _telling us the truth."

"No, I'm twenty-five years old. And I swear I'm not lying. I was born 1993. I didn't have a clue this was going to happen. I wouldn't risk my own life had I had any control over my destination."

Veras grunts. "Hmph. Fair point. You mentioned Garrus Vakarian. What do you know of him?"

_Idiot! He wouldn't be able to understand you anyway! He wouldn't recognize you, either. You and he have never met before. _"It was a name I found. I didn't know there was any…person…actually called that."

The turian gives me another piercing stare.

"Why did you mention a supposedly fake person to one of our citizens?"

"I didn't know what else to do. For a second I thought I'd been plunged into a work of science-fiction."

"Where is this document you got your information from?"

"I would show it to you, but I don't think I can access from here." I lift my arms and let them fall, indicating my cell. "Besides, my technology is like a hundred and fifty years outdated. I doubt it would work with whatever you have." I gesture to his omni-tool, my gaze lingering longingly. "I don't know how to work one of those anyway."

"Then tell me."

"You wouldn't believe me if I did. You'd have to see it for yourself."

The turian gives a disgusted snort and crosses his arms. "Useless. You are worse than useless. You are a royal pain in my ass. Not only do you have no information for me, you can't tell me where you got what you know."

"If I was human military, do you honestly think I'd tell you anyway?"

He huffs, a sharp exhalation through his nose. "Tactically useless, but clever with words. You would make a good quellen. No one outside the Hierarchy must know of your existence, though, or that will spell trouble. Nevertheless, a personnel file is required on the quellen to legally own said quellen. Palaven is dangerous, even to us, and the file will help the doctors if you get injured. Dr. Vesarius said he'd come and talk with you later about it."

I don't know what to say to this, so remain silent. Veras half-turns, presenting his profile to me and making it abundantly clear conversation is over. He starts to talk with the translator, apparently beginning a very heated discussion. My gaze flickers over both turians, taking in their fringes and distinctly reptilian bodies. As opposed to humans' soft curves, turians are all points and angles, a sharp reflection of the unbending loyalty that their culture displays. _God, they look so much Garrus. Do they all look that way, or am I just an undifferentiating observer? _I pinch myself so hard I leave fingernail marks. It hurts. I'm not dreaming. Just checking. This would be some insane dream anyway. Veras glances at me, turns back to the translator, and says something that sounds only like low growling to my ears. I cross my arms and scowl at them. _Will I ever get my answers, or will they just leave me to flounder in my own confusion and feeling of misplacement? _The conversation winds down, and both of them walk off, leaving me alone and very annoyed. I sigh and sit down, bored out of my skull once again. _Floundering in my confusion it is. _


	4. Quarantine

Veras watched the human pace through the one-way mirror. The cell had been rigged very carefully with holographic projectors to give the appearance of a solid wall rather than a sheet of tinted glass, and the human had so far bought into the clever illusion. The idea behind it was to watch the occupant without the occupant know they were being watched, and it worked well enough. As far as the Head of Security knew, the human had no idea, which was exactly the point. It had been an hour since his chat with her, and she hadn't even tried to break out. No cleverly concealed explosive devices or lasers with this one, not that the door could be broken by a bomb small enough to conceal on a person wearing only one layer of clothing. It was made of stronger stuff than it looked. She wasn't even banging on the door or demanding to be released. She was just sitting quietly or otherwise wearing a groove into the sterile tile with her incessant pacing.

"Who is she?"

"We don't know. We don't have any records of her. We've looked, but we can't find anything. We have even accessed recovered human military files. Nothing."

"Did you look thoroughly enough?"

"Yes. We triple-checked everything. If she does really have a file, then we can't access it with what we have."

The two turians watched the human make another lap of the cell in silence.

"Do you think she's dangerous?"

"No, or I would have ordered her killed. The arrest had to be done so quickly that we haven't had time to search her. She could have concealed a weapon if she was prepared and clever, and if she had done that, she would have used it by now. I don't actually believe she's dangerous."

"You don't actually believe that_...varren shit,_ do you?"

"As imaginary as her tale is, she's done nothing, absolutely nothing, to refute it. Until such time as she does, I find myself believing the only currently viable option, and that is to believe her story is true." Veras' omni-tool chimed. He opened the message and scanned it quickly. "Dr. Vesarius is waiting right outside the door. Would you let him in, please?"

The door slid aside to reveal a slightly disgruntled-looking turian in light armor, not much more than a thin chestplate and leg guards. Apparently he wasn't concerned about the prisoner pulling a gun on him, though the armor was enough to protect him from a knife. He wore a gray lab-coat over his armor and carried a data-pad in one hand. He nodded once at the Head of Security, then spoke.

"I was told you have a human being held in one of the secure cells. Why is she here?"

"She doesn't seem dangerous, but she knows a lot, too much not to arouse suspicion. But she hasn't given any reason for us to turn her over to the military for a more in-depth interrogation, nor have we had time to conduct a thorough investigation ourselves. We questioned her briefly after she was arrested, but she didn't give us anything useful. She claims also…well, she claims she's from the past. We called you here to make sure she was…clean…before we had any prolonged contact with her. You know how easy it is for them to carry and transmit disease."

"Has she been disinfected yet?"

"No, we…"

"Idiots! You were supposed to make sure any humans were _clean _before they got here! Don't you follow protocol?"

"There were extenuating circumstances! There wasn't time! You'll understand when you hear her story."

"Do it. Now."

Veras sighed and ran his hands over the interface. The human wouldn't be in the least bit pleased by this, but protocol was protocol, and humans were notorious for carrying disease. He saw her scowl as the sterilization routine began with an instructional hologram and felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. They looked so funny when they were displeased, and for a moment, he wished he had her highly malleable features. It was so much easier to read a human than one of his own. He turned his back on the cell as she began to shed her clothing. It wasn't indecent for turians; clothing was more of a decoration than an actual requirement for a race who didn't have any sex-distinguishing characteristics, but he knew it was indecent for humans.

The human squealed as the showerheads drenched her in a deluge of cold disinfectant. He didn't blame her: all the missions he went onto other planets required such a precaution as insurance that no one would bring home new disease. It was necessary, but not in the least bit pleasant. After about a minute, the sound of water hitting the glass stopped. He looked at Vesarius, then nodded.

"She's all yours, Doctor. Inform me if she causes trouble."

Vesarius acknowledged, and he strode out, leaving the biologist to study the human.

The alien in my cell has white marking on his face, like the one that questioned me. But I don't care so much about his physical appearance anymore so much as the bundle of cloth he has tucked under his arm. The threadbare towel wrapped around my waist is not big enough to conceal the rest of my naked torso, and I have to keep my arms crossed in front of my chest. I have never been in such a state of undress in front of anyone, except maybe the nurse who delivered me at my birth, and it's very unsettling to me.

He hands me the pile of cloth without a word. I scowl at him, waiting for him to turn around, but he does not. _Just perfect._ I turn around, back to the turian, and let the towel drop. As quickly as possible, I slip into the garment he brought, not liking the idea of being exposed to the alien's gaze any longer than necessary. When I turn around, still glowering, he has an expression of steady indifference on his face. There is not even a hint of lust in those storm-gray eyes, at least not that I can tell. For the first time, I feel my nerves settle a little bit. "Hello…"

"Good evening." His voice is calm and professional, his omni-tool seamlessly translating for him. "My name is Dr. Vesarius. I have been informed of your situation. As I am in charge of your well-being for the moment, it falls to me to let you know what will happen to you."

I felt myself stiffen a little. "And…?" I was so sure…I hope I wasn't wrong.

"Your situation is a difficult one, but we cannot break wartime protocol. You must stay here. I'm sorry, but it's the best that we can do. You'll work for us as a quellen."

The tension relieved, the stiffness melts from my body.

"A quellen is…"

"I know. I read about it. I know how dangerous the radiation is on Palaven. You don't need to tell me twice."

He tenses, his mandibles closing tightly against his jaws. "Where?"

"Same fictional document that informed me all about you. Turns out it was pretty accurate."

"I am obligated to inform you, nevertheless. Now listen. A quellen is a captured civilian who, instead of being killed as so often happens in warfare, instead is used for labor. Bondservants are released at the end of the war along with some sort of compensation. A quellen can be taken in by a host family." I recognize the word _maecollen_, meaning host,as he speaks. "But usually they work on larger establishments to assist with the war effort. Currently there is a need for further research on humans, though, as our scientists have recently turned up something new."

My breath catches as a chill races through me. More than anything, I do not wish to end up in a _lab_, much less as an experiment or test subject to be studied. "Why? You know our language. You have studied our physiology. What more could you possibly learn from us by means of scientific exploration?"

"You'd be surprised." Those gray eyes have turned wintry now, and I fight the urge to step back. "But you don't have a file yet, as is needed to legally own a _quellen_, so you can't be placed yet. That's why I'm here. I need medical records."

And suddenly our talk becomes an extensive series of question-and-answer, mostly about my injury, immunization and allergy records. I recall as much as I can, but then he asks me some questions that I am not expecting.

"How often do you travel outside of a planet's gravity?"

"Never done it before. Where I come from, artificial gravity is fiction."

"Do you have biotic abilities?"

"What? No." _Biotic abilities?_

"Have you ever had exposure to element zero?"

I look at him, bewildered, back into an intensely searching gaze.

"No…at least I don't think so. Why?"

"Not important." He gives me another questioning look, and I get the feeling he doesn't believe me.

_Then why'd you ask?_ "That all you want, or is there something else?"

"One more thing. Wrist, please."

I extend my hand, palm up. The alien takes my arm just above the wrist. I stare at his long, scaled fingers tipped with sharp talons. His grasp is warm, dry, and firm enough to unsettle me. He's strong enough to break my fingers if he were to squeeze, and I can tell. He produces a device from somewhere on him, presses it against my skin. I fidget, wondering if I should pull away, but before I can make up my mind, I feel a sharp pain. I gasp and try to twist away, but the doctor keeps a firm hold on me for a moment more. He dabs the wound with some kind of gel, then releases me. The injury heals before my eyes.

Vesarius removes a small vial full of dark red liquid from the device and holds it up to the light. "Apologies. I had to take a sample. It's very important for your medical file." He slips the vial into a pocket. "Palaven is full of dangers, and we do try to take care of our quellen. We have laws against the intentional harming of quellen, but they're not enforced heavily. My suggestion is to behave. I don't want to have to ever use your file."

"Anything else?" I eye him with something close to suspicion.

"I'm required to tell you that if you are caught having sexual relations with another quellen, you will be sterilized."

I wince. It seems harsh to me, even though I never plan on such a thing. "Population control, right?"

He nods sharply. "We don't want the situation here getting out of hand. It's difficult to manage as it is, what with all the comings and goings of humans in and out of our territory." His gaze flickers to his omni-tool. "I have to go. You're in the system now, so you can be put up for…adoption, for lack of a better word." He strides to the door, then looks back. "Be careful," he says, and then the door opens and shuts behind him. I look down, rub the now-nonexistent injury. _Left to wait…again. Dammit. I hate waiting._

**A/N: Here's to Amber Penglass, who inspired my story. She wrote "Sound the Clarion". If you like my stuff, make sure to check out hers!  
(Search under Mass Effect, narrow your searches by adding Garrus V. to your search. Should be the first one.)  
**


	5. Maecollen

Veras ran a long-fingered hand over his fringe and gave a rumbling sigh as he watched the human female being escorted off by her new master, or in this case, mistress. The old matriarch's hired help had come down to retrieve the human and deal with the accompanying paperwork. He had noticed that the quick-witted servant had pilfered one of the guards for security purposes, transferring the responsibility of keeping the pyjak in line to the (decidedly out-of-place) mercenary. The transfer had gone seamlessly, and he rather enjoyed talking with the young lady, having dealt with her enough times to build up a working relationship with her. He'd told her that if the matriarch kept amassing humans at this rate, she would need her own private army to keep them in check. Humans were trouble, and the old widow had adopted four in the last two weeks.

The human seemed uneasy around the hired guard, but they always were the first time around. Being owned and traded was a relatively foreign concept to them, but they were quick learners and swift to adapt to their environment. Sometimes he wished they weren't quite so adaptable. It was first contact, the expanding of humanity into turian space, that had started this entire mess after all. He gave another grumble and headed back inside, looking forward to a stiff drink. He needed one after this mess.

After retreating to his office and locking the door behind him, he sank gratefully into his chair, popped open one of his cabinets, and poured himself a shot of liquor. The drink was strong enough to put a human under the table with two ounces, but turains were made of tougher stuff. He drank it in one long draft, the alcohol burning the back of his throat, then poured himself another. This one he savored, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

The insistent _ping _of an incoming message snapped him out of his relaxed state. He sat up and accessed the message with a quick motion. He saw who it was from and sighed deeply. _Oh dear. This _couldn't _be good…_ The sender was Dr. Vesarius, and according to the additional information it was about the human female who had been captured in the town early this morning.

"Play message." He said, feeling the knot of tension in his gut that had been there all afternoon coil tighter.

_"__Captain, this is important. The human female you picked up today…she's a biotic. I suspected it from the moment I saw her. You probably felt her too, but now I'm sure. She's had exposure to element zero. Her blood sample confirms my suspicions. She needs to be brought back as soon as possible and properly dealt with. You know how dangerous untrained biotics can be, both to themselves and to others. There are turians that have similar abilities and know how to handle someone with biotics. They'll know what to do if there's a problem. But if she goes to others, she's in danger of killing both herself and them. We need to talk about this more as soon as possible. Call me when you get my message."_

Veras gave a low, exhausted rumble, burying his head in his hands. This whole thing spoke of one enormous mess of documents. It was very difficult to retrieve a quellen from a host family's home once assigned, especially if said host family had gotten attached to their bondservant, as happened many times. As if he didn't have enough on his plate already. He'd never been in such a mess before, and was for the first time regretting staying on Palaven as opposed to going offworld. He drank the rest of the liquor back hastily and closed his eyes, head aching. If only problems resolved themselves.

_The sniper rifle beneath my fingers is hard and smooth. Real as life, the life I have been clinging so tenaciously onto for the past ten minutes. I am crouching behind the upper balcony in a warehouse, feeling both anxiety and frustration. My friends are below, but with them a knot of men bent on murdering me. There is a knot of tense fear in my stomach, but that is something I've mastered, pushed down enough. I know how to control it, to focus it, minimalize it until the danger's passed. It comes with being a soldier. _

_I brace the weapon against my shoulder, take careful aim. _Come on, guys. Hurry up! _One of my three fingers curls around the trigger, and the rifle kicks…_

_And suddenly I'm in my own living room. Heart racing in shock, I look down at my fingers, making sure they're normal. All five digits seem to be accounted for, but…what did I just experience? I stare at my computer. The Mass Effect mid-mission pause screen glows blue, one of my fingers resting on the pause button. I check the time. 5:48 am. It's still dark outside. I must have fallen asleep at my computer…while playing games? Oh well. _

_I shut my computer, try and fail to stifle a huge yawn, and collapse on the nearest couch, where I am instantly asleep._

_I dream of a stone tossed in the air, turning, falling slowly, too slowly. It looks familiar, almost dark blue against the gray-white. And then there is a sudden flash of light, and something sharp prods me hard…_

I wake to a tall figure bending over me, one finger extended, ready to poke me again.

"I'm up, I'm up," I groan, disentangling myself from the blanket and sitting. I rub my eyes, blink up at the figure as it chirps something, and start. A turian is watching me, looking down at me with what I take to be a slight scowl. Jeez. So it wasn't a dream. You think I'd be used to seeing the aliens by now, but they're still startling, especially when you wake up to find an annoyed one bending over you. Her (she has no real fringe) tone, though I can't understand a word, is frustrated as she snaps something else at me, dropping my shoes into my lap. She taps impatiently as I pull them on, then grabs me around the wrist.

"Hey! I can walk, you know!" I complain as she drags me along after her. She just glances at me and keeps pulling. Up through the servants' quarters and through what I surmise is a very odd-looking kitchen, and then through a dining room of sorts, and out onto a patio where another turian with a rather fragile-looking half-fringe is waiting. The other turns at our approach, and suddenly I realize this is an elder turian at the end of (his? her?) days. The clan markings on the alien's face have faded, color bleached from thinning carapace. The eyes are tired but intelligent as they look upon me, though this one is not much taller than I am.

The older turian glances at the younger one and says something. She tries to argue, but is overridden with a wave of a hand and what sounds like a rebuke. She stamps a foot, and then runs off, leaving the two of us alone. The older one gives me a long, calculating look, then removes a device from her arm, holding it out to me without comment. I take it, curious but wary, and slip it over my own arm, starting a little but smiling when it flares orange. My very own omni-tool! What I would have paid to have a working replica of one of these things…And in the middle of turian territory, to just have one dropped into my lap like this is…unprecedented.

I play with it, trying to get it to work, and start pushing buttons. The old turian watches me, mandibles parted slightly in a pitying smile, then takes my arm and inputs a sequence. When the turian finishes, (he? she?) introduces (his? her?) self. The translator spits out her words in English.

"Welcome to my home. I am the matriarch of this house. My name is Arashe. I apologize for Myka. She helps coordinate the servants' work, and she is very busy all the time. I admire her work ethic, personally, but I won't have her picking on the new hands." There is a pause while the old turian surveys the wide patio and artfully sculpted bushes. "These gardens were until so recently the pride and joy of my husband." She gestures at the wide expanse of impeccable flower beds brimming with exotic species of flora. "The gardens are too much work for me to tend alone, though. I can't move like I used to, so I have had to find help." The tone of exhaustion carries even through translation, making me wonder exactly how old she is. "Even three hired servants hasn't been enough, so I have been looking at the quarantine centers for young, able-bodied humans like yourself. It's becoming harder to find them, you know. They need strong backs and arms in the mines. But you seemed thin enough that they must not have wanted you." I recoil slightly at the thinly veiled insult. I've always thought of myself as scrawny, but this is the first time someone's ever told me outright. Arashe looks at me, smiles a little at my faint scowl. "Don't worry. That's a good thing. At least here you'll get to see sunshine." I decide I agree with her. I don't like being called a weakling, but not being able to see sunshine would kill me. Then I think of Palaven's radiation, and think the sunshine will kill me anyway. My face splits into a twisted grin. _Oh, the bittersweet irony. _

As if reading my mind, she says, "I haven't received your anti-radiation medicine yet, so you'll be staying inside until it arrives. Come on." She directs me back inside. My stomach is feeling uncomfortably empty, hunger gnawing at my concentration. And then it suddenly gives a great rumbling growl, startling the matriarch.

"Spirits! What was that?"

"I'm sorry, Kyria." I half mumble, using the honorary _ma'am_. "It's just…Well, I haven't eaten breakfast, and I am hungry…" My sheepish apology is broken by her laughter.

"Good heavens! I thought…well, never you mind! Just…" she lowers her voice, "Don't get hungry around the men." Still smiling, she leads me back through the kitchen and opens what is apparently the pantry door. I recognize none of the dry groceries on the shelves, all of the ingredients as alien to me as those who would eventually eat them. But up on the higher shelves, there are two large boxes with the rather humorous label of "pyjak" on them. She pulls down one of these boxes and extracts a wrapped bar.

"It's not much, but it will hold you over until lunch."

Hungry as I am, it's still hard for me to eat the umino bar. I've been so used to cooking things for myself, mostly my mother's fantastic recipes, that the switch to military survival rations is less than appetizing. Still, food is food when you're hungry, and I manage to finish it. She replaces the box out of reach and shoos me from the kitchen.

"Now go find Myka. There's plenty to do, and I didn't take you on so that you could sit around and eat. Go on."

Feeling mildly astonished by my sudden dismissal, I turn tail and flee the kitchen. As I make my way through a back hallway, someone else turns a corner and bumps into me. It wouldn't have been so bad if the person weren't carrying a stack of clean clothing that went flying as he sprawled backwards.

"Sorry!"

Feeling embarrassed, I scramble to help him pick up, but upon bending down notice a strangely familiar tattoo on his ankle. He notices me looking and angrily yanks his sock up over the mark, concealing it from view. He glowers at me as he snatches articles of clothing off the ground, not even thanking me as he pulls the recovered items from my hands.

"Hey, where can I get some decent shoes?" I ask, noticing his own much more adequate footwear and immediately coveting it. I am still in my slipper-shoes from the quarantine center, and though they protect my feet from damage, I can feel every rock beneath the thin soles.

He doesn't answer, just gives me another scowl and walks off, leaving me feeling a little off-balance.

_Was that the N7 logo on his ankle? What's a human with a military tattoo doing in turian territory? Aren't they trained to watch for that sort of thing?_

Either way, an Alliance soldier here does not bode well.

**A/N: Thank you AlphaDraconis69 and Garrus1 (aka Guest) for honest reviews! I really appreciate even the smallest bit of attention, especially on a fic like this, where I'm just one among ten thousand plus others. Thanks for taking time to read, review and give me your input! And if you're still confused about where I got most of my info for this fic, check out "Sound The Clarion". Link in one of the A/Ns in previous chapters. And this will pick up soon, so keep reading!**


	6. The Clumsy Detective

I spend the day running all over the house, cleaning and tidying up after my new mistress. The estate is huge, apparently, making what was once my home look like a tiny cracker-box of a house compared with its sprawling size. While I'm busy scrubbing the floors, I have plenty of time to think over what I saw, and it makes me wonder. _What could an old turian like Arashe be hiding to get an Alliance soldier sent after her? _And then a more worrying thought: _Does he intend to kill her? _She _is _just an old turian, from what I can tell, and she seems kind enough, if stern. But she's hiding something. The Alliance doesn't go after random turians, do they? I don't think so; it's a waste of resources, and sending an undercover operative to take out a single old woman is overkill. _What have I gotten myself into?_

It makes me suspicious. If I dig around, what will I find out about my mistress? Should I warn her? Probably, but when? And how? I curse my condition. Normally awkward in regular social conversations, I have no idea to even begin to break the news to a seven-foot alien who is essentially holding me captive that there is a potentially dangerous man in her home. Making wild accusations is just a bad idea, period, which is what it will seem like if I just tell her without any preamble.

I finish the kitchen tiles, collect my cleaning supplies and move to the library, mulling over the problem. I look around a little, curious. Forty-eight hours earlier, if I had been told I would be able to see the inside of an alien library, I would not have believed the messenger. And yet here I am, standing in a library with a skylight in the middle of an alien house. In a way, the library looks more like a wine cellar: the walls have a latticework to store the hundreds of scrolls here. Scrolls, not books. Interesting. I guess they'd be easier to grasp for a turian. Temporarily abandoning my duties, I run my hands over the scrolls almost reverently. My ears pick up noise; someone talking. The door at the other end of the room is open just a crack. I push my way through it, feeling a tad nervous, and enter a study; empty. The terminal on the desk has been left on, displaying the news. A voice (not turian; asari probably) announces the news. I walk around and am about to shut it off when the picture of a turian cruiser pops up on screen. I feel myself tense, and then I activate my translator. The words filter through the

program in English.

"…Second crushing victory at Relay 314, turian forces are driving the humans back. Turian casualties measure only in the hundreds while human casualties are still climbing. The turian fleet expects to drive the invaders back through the relay with a few more decisive victories. Some are optimistic about turian chances of winning, but others believe that the tenacity of the invaders is enough to match turian military superiority. In an interview with Primarch Fedorian, he said: "The humans are the toughest enemies we have ever fought. They cling to every inch of ground they take, and they fight to the last man. They don't fight fair, though, and that has cost us good soldiers. We have to keep up the offensive until they are purged from the system, or they will come back and finish what they came to do. We won't back down from this fight, though. Not until they're gone."

_No, _I think to myself. _This is wrong. We…were supposed to capture Shanxi, not be driven back. What changed?_ The news report continues, and I nearly miss the next words.

"Prison camps are being set up on turian planets for captured human colonists, many of whom have been evicted by turian forces from their established homes. Many have sought refuge with other races, with very limited success. The Hierarchs have promised that the humans will be released when the war is over and a compromise has been made. Whether or not such a resolution can be made remains to be seen, and the Citadel has already made plans to try to settle relations between humans and turians. The end of the war may be in sight, but not for another few months. Meanwhile-"

"I think that's enough of that for one day."

I whirl around to see Arashe standing there, looking stern. She reaches past me and shuts the terminal off. Heat blooms in my cheeks, and my first reaction is to defend myself.

"Kyria, I-"

"What are you doing in here? This room is off limits."

"I…" I momentarily freeze up, gesturing wildly. "The…the door was open. Someone had left the terminal on. I just came in to turn it off."

She sighs dryly. "Well, I suppose I can't blame you for your own curiosity. But don't let me catch you in here again."

"Yes, Kyria."

I allow her to lead me out of the study, back into the library.

"How did you find me?"

"I came in to look for something to read. And to check on you. After that, It wasn't hard to figure out. You humans never fail to amaze me how often you get into trouble. Last week one of my other quellen tipped over and broke a very expensive piece of art. It's still being repaired."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know. Really."

"Which is why I'm letting you off easy this time. Now, go on. Finish the dusting in here and then you can eat."

"Arashe?"

"Yes?"

"I heard about the war. What if the turians win and never make peace with humans? What will happen to all of us?"

"I can't say. Usually if we win a war, we'll force surrender under our terms. But I don't think we have ever not been able to make peace, however poorly-received the treaty may be. Back to work with you."

As I pick up my dust rag and she retrieves her scrolls, I feel the bottled-up secret of her soldier-quellen threaten to burst from me. I want to tell her so badly, but I am afraid it will be received as a fabrication, a lie. _Should I tell, or should I wait? _Before I can make up my mind, she leaves me to the cleaning. 

I ponder the situation all throughout the rest of the day, tossing and turning in my nest-shaped hammock, knowing the man is potentially extremely dangerous. I don't get a lot of sleep that night.

**A/N: Another chapter down! And things are definitely heating up. We'll take a break from 1st person next chapter and take a look at the front lines. Your least favorite turian general will be making a special appearance, and we might see his brother as well. And Yay more reviews! Luv them and keep em coming!**

**SheegothBait**


	7. Battle Plans

Lieutenant Tyronis was nervous. Normally unshakably steady, his mandibles were trembling now, a turian sign of angst. He had bad news for the general: more men had been lost in the skirmish, but for whatever reason the general didn't want to simply bomb the position. The general was a tough soldier, but he was also horrible at taking news, bad or good. He intimidated his underlings, mostly because he was so damn difficult to talk to. The troops whispered that they'd never seen him wear any expression besides a neutral look or a scowl. He was temperamental, as quick to change as the weather on Palaven, and had sometimes violent outbursts at anything that got in his way. All of them agreed he was a terrifying tyrant, but he got things done. He was the ideal engine for the machine of war. In the absence of results, though…

The lieutenant shuddered, his steps almost unconsciously slowing as he walked to the general's quarters. When he got there, he took a moment to smooth his uniform, breathing deeply, steeling himself. And then he raised a fist and rapped sharply on the door.

"Enter." A voice growled. The door opened, and he stepped into the den of an alpha varren.

The room lighting was dimmed. The general was bent over a star map, his fringe, face, and markings discolored by the unnatural light. His teeth were slightly bared, and they glittered in the flat glare of the projection. It wasn't a far stretch to imagine that they were coated in crimson human blood, as though the general had been tearing his enemies to pieces with his teeth… The lieutenant quickly shook the image from his head as the general straightened and brought his attention to bear on the unfortunate officer.

"Lieutenant Tyronis."

"General Arterius."

"Tell me you have some good news."

"Unfortunately not, sir." He said, feeling his throat tighten. "We lost another thirty men in the fighting. We can't keep this up, sir. We have them trapped, but they're too entrenched. Too many men have thrown themselves into their guns, waiting for them to run out of ammo. We need to change tactics."

The general growled, mandibles flared in a snarl, then spun about and began to pace.

"Brother."

The voice came from a darkened corner, making the lieutenant jump. He hadn't noticed the other turian standing in the corner. Now, however, the other stepped forward, so that the map cast light on his bone-white features. The lieutenant recalled this turian's name: Saren Arterius. Though it was technically Admiral Arterius; Desolas Arterius' brother had been climbing the ranks quite swiftly, faster than most others had done. The lieutenant had never seen the admiral, but now that he stood next to his brother, the relationship was clear: the admiral was a younger, colder, and more scarred twin of his brother.

"Are you considering my suggestion now?"

The general bared his teeth, clearly forced into a difficult position. Tyronis knew that the general liked to get things done his way and hated to be forced into any other decision. But now it seemed he had little choice. He paced, clearly thinking, as though trying to figure his way around the decision. Finally the elder Arterius consented.

"We'll do it your way this time. Show me what you intend to do."

Saren strode over and called up the image of the planet they were circling. Expertly manipulating the map, he zoomed in on the area the humans were entrenched. The map was now looking at the battlefield from a top-down live-footage view of the surface. The magnification and resolution was not quite good enough to see the humans and what they were doing, but it gave a nice view of the prefab buildings and the surrounding landscape. At least what was left of them.

"The human are entrenched and well-fortified. They planned to be attacked at some point, and they prepared well for it. But their patterns make them predictable. I'm willing to bet a small team of four, maybe five, can slip into their base when the guard changes and catch them by surprise. They're all tired. They've been suffering food shortages, low morale, and sleeplessness, trying to be ready for our next attack. They're running out of supplies."

"How do you propose we get in?"

"They have tried to plan for everything by backing against a canyon wall. It makes sense to a point, but once you get backed in, there's only one way out. Those natural barriers are also our ticket in. A small unit of well-prepared troops can rappel down the canyon walls under the cover of night. Cause a distraction at the front, drawing the humans out, and they'll be able to slip in undetected. The smaller strike force can either flush them out then, or they can start eliminating the threat from the inside."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, seeing as your decision will determine what the loadout for the strike team will be. So, _General_," The word was the slightest bit mocking, "what is your decision?

General Arterius cast a cold look at his brother, as though reminding him who was boss. Saren just smirked slightly, as though he knew he could get away with it.

"All right; you have clearance to initiate."

Saren nodded sharply. His arrogance was gone now; he was all business.

"I'll choose my own team."

"If anything happens to any of them, you're accountable."

"I want the best: I'm requesting Kandros and Victus for this."

The general nodded, one mandible twitching, his arms crossed.

Saren suddenly fixed Tyronis with a penetrating gaze. "How about you, Lieutenant? I've seen your service record. You handle yourself well. Interested in joining me?"

"Me? Join you?"

"Maybe not. Hesitance will slow me down, and I can't afford that." The admiral looked away from him, indifferent. Tyronis felt a surge of rage. He stepped forward and saluted sharply.

"Sir, I'd be more than up to the challenge. Like you said, you've seen my records. You know I operate well inside a mission with stealth parameters. My gun is yours, Admiral."

Saren gave him a cold look. "If you slow me down, I will shoot your knees out and leave you. Is that thoroughly understood, Lieutenant?"

Tyronis nodded sharply, feeling the cool rush of battle anticipation steal over him. For the last week he'd been stuck in orbit. But now he was to get his boots on the ground again. Spirits, he'd missed that.

"I won't let you down, sir."

**A/N: Holy crap. Two chapters. One weekend. 'Nuff said. Mind you, they're shorter, but still...I think it's a record. Best thing is, a follow-up chapter on this one coming soon! I'm really loving this story. Hope you are as much as I am. Comments, questions always welcome! And please point out character discrepancies. I...sometimes have trouble with that.**


	8. Missing Pieces

**A/N: This chapter is rated M for violence and language**

Tyronis sighted down his Mantis rifle. The humans below were completely unaware of his or the infiltration team's presence. The shouts from the distraction could be heard all the way up the cliff, and if he listened hard enough he was pretty sure he could distinguish between the sounds of human and turian rifles. His heart was racing from the adrenaline coursing through his body, but as he'd been trained, he took a deep breath, finger curling around the trigger. Hold. Fire. The rifle kicked against his shoulder, making only the slightest sound, and the human guard's head disintegrated in a red mist. Exhale. He collapsed the rifle, stood, and spotted Saren. The admiral was already on his feet, waiting for him. Beside him, Victus, spotting for them, nodded to Tyronis in acknowledgement of the kill shot. Kandros was clenching and unclenching her fists and seemed generally not interested in any of the others' actions, distant and tense, waiting for the real action to begin.

Saren gave a signal, replacing his sniper rifle in its magnetic holster with the ease and grace of long practice. Tyronis tried to imitate the motion, but the long, heavy silencer on the rifle caught a little before it snapped back into place. The four of them crept forward to the cliff face, pistols drawn, running in a crouch to stay out of the field of fire. A few feet from the edge, the admiral held up a hand, and they stopped, pulling pitons from their belt loops and sinking them deep into the earth. Tyronis slipped the coil of rope off his shoulder and tossed it over the edge, not stopping to watch it fall. He clipped his harness to the rope and began his descent.

The rope buzzed beneath his fingers as he fell, one hand clasped around the butt and trigger guard of his pistol. His breathing echoed inside his helmet, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Every ounce of his concentration was focused on controlling his fall. Too slow and he would get spotted and shot, too fast and he would end up a sticky blue smear on the ground. The hand that clenched the rope felt the heat of friction, even through the thick gloves he wore. The ground raced towards him, too fast it almost seemed, and suddenly his feet found purchase.

He had scaled the nearly 130 meters of cliff in mere seconds. His boots touched dirt, and he swiftly untangled himself from the rope, bringing his pistol up and around. The admiral motioned him to the right, sending Kandros left. Victus took the center, following Saren. Tyronis skirted the pair of bodies, bloody mud clinging to his boots as he hid in the shadows of the boxy buildings. He heard cries of pain up ahead, shouting and more gunfire. There were injured humans here, and like wounded varren, they were dangerous. He stepped around a building to find one such soldier nursing a bandaged shoulder, a human-made pistol in his lap. The soldier's head came up at his footsteps, and Tyronis registered fear and anger in his eyes a second before his shot pierced the human's heart.

He ran past the body, his gaze flickering over ammo crates and ration packs, some torn open, most empty. Casings from guns with heavier rounds littered the ground. He avoided these, knowing that to make noise would endanger the mission. He came upon a guard, a woman. She was alert and armed, but facing the wrong direction, a fatal mistake. He grabbed her from behind, a hand going over her mouth, a bullet puncturing her cheap armor with one shot. At this range, their kinetic barriers couldn't protect them, so any bullets would go straight through. He lowered the body carefully enough so as not to make noise. He knew the easy kills couldn't last forever, though. Someone was bound to notice something.

Sure enough, a cry of panic rose above the sounds of battle, and suddenly there was a flash of blue and the noise cut off. _Biotics? What the…?_ He was brought back to reality by the approaching sounds of shouts and assault rifles firing. Quickly holstering his pistol, he snatched up the assault rifle the human had dropped and ran across the camp, following the sounds of the fighting.

The first real resistance he practically stumbled upon. There was a group of four, two men, two women, hiding behind an overturned ammo crate and aiming down an aisle, towards the open door of a battered building. He quickly ducked back behind the nearest barricade, drew his pistol, and aimed for the back of the pale-skinned female's head. The pistol kicked, but the bullet bounced off, kinetic barriers sparking. As one they turned on him, and in their moment of shock, he fired again. There was a spray of blood, and she slumped. Then he was forced to run as the other three opened fire, his own kinetic barriers draining halfway under the combined mass of bullets.

The humans gave chase, shouting crass nicknames like "skull-face" and "lizard", insulting him for cowardice. Anger flared inside him, but he was no fool. A direct confrontation was out of the question. His longer legs gave him the advantage of speed, keeping him one step ahead of them as he ran. He aimed behind him and fired a little to slow them down, but it was unlikely that he would actually hit anything. The assault rifle wasn't made for accuracy, or he would be dead right now.

He skidded around a corner, stumbled over a body, and fell, twisting so that his weapon wasn't pinned underneath him. One of them jumped on him as he rolled over, something flashed in the dark, and he reached up to grab the human's wrists, dropping the rifle. The human's teeth were gritted in a snarl as he fought with the turian, but Tyronis was stronger than the other man .He gave a sudden twist of his hips that tossed the man off him, causing the man's helmet to crack against a crate. He jumped to his feet and pinned the stunned man under a boot, drawing his pistol. The man struggled to free himself as the lieutenant lined him up for a kill shot. But as Tyronis leveled his weapon, something bumped his helmet.

"Drop it, skull-face."

_Well…shit. _One of the enemies must have crept up behind him. If he looked out of the side of his helmet, he could see the human holding the gun to his head. He stayed absolutely still for a moment, evaluating the situation.

"I said, _drop it, _shit-for-brains. I know you can hear me, and I _will_ pull the trigger. So drop the goddamned gun."

He bent his head forward a little, the rifle scraping along the curve of his helmet. If the human fired, the bullet would only graze him now.

"Freeze, fucker! _I said freeze!" _She was screaming now, furious. But the fact she hadn't fired yet meant she had placed herself in a very dangerous position. _Rookie mistake._ She might be the one holding the gun, but he was the one in control. His left hand came up a little, his mandibles twitching with tension. He let the pistol drop.

He exploded into action, ducking forward. His left hand came up to grab the muzzle of the weapon, twisting it from the woman's hands as he redirected the assault rifle's aim. The gun went off, firing harmlessly into the air. His other hand pulled the combat knife at his hip, bringing it across the woman's throat in a single slashing motion. She collapsed, bleeding out on the dirt within seconds, probably not even registering pain.

A fist of force punched into his side as he spun on his other opponent, and a gunshot echoed. Something splattered across his helmet, smearing his visor with a dark liquid. He wiped at the substance, and his fingers came away sticky with blood, coated in pulverized bone and gray matter. He turned to see Victus standing a good ways away, sniper rifle lowered. Only then did he realize his kinetic barriers had been totally fried.

"Thanks. I owe you one." Tyronis bent and picked up his pistol.

"I'll hold you to that. Come on, the general's overseeing the clean-up. And a word of warning: the admiral seems pissed, so do _not _do anything to make him mad."

"So what happened, exactly? I thought there were more humans than this."

"Pincer tactic. The squad at the turian fortifications made the distraction, and it worked. We slipped in, the humans panicked and tried to stop us, and the general's forces crushed them."

Tyronis was uncomfortably aware of the body count. The dead humans lay where they fell in pools of their own blood, more than half killed by single shots. He was used to seeing war casualties, but it was still morbid, and it was never this one-sided.

"Spirits. Who killed all these humans?"

"The admiral. And Kandros. She's a spitfire. You should see her go at it."

"The admiral?"

"Yep."

"Wow."

The pair continued their walk through the tangle of bodies. _It hadn't been a battle, _Tyronis realized, _it had been a massacre. _The sight of a turian soldier given the unpleasant task of stripping the bodies of valuables did little to add to his grim mood. Suddenly the transceiver inside his helmet squawked, startling him.

_"__Victus? Tyronis? Do you copy? Over."_

"We read you, Admiral." Victus responded, steady and calm.

_"__We have information indicating there's an officer hiding around here somewhere. I need you to find the bastard for me. We have the area surrounded, so it's highly unlikely he escaped. We are not leaving until we either get a positive ID on the body or you bring him back here in chains. Take him alive if possible. The general needs some answers."_

"Sir?"

Saren's voice became a low snarl.

_"__This wasn't a military op. Best we can find is mentions of a group called 'Cerberus'. We need to find out who they are, why they are way out here and why they are willing to die to defend this point." _

"Yes, sir. I'll see what I can do."

Tyronis shivered a little, trying not to contemplate the officer's fate even as the question rang through his head. What _were _the humans here for?

**A/N: One more to go, then back to my first-person! I've neglected the trouble brewing elsewhere too long, and I need to get back to it. Thank you LegionN7 and NarwhalWarlord for your honest contributions. For those of you who have better things to do than convert lengths in random fanfictions, 130 meters is about 425 feet. See you next chapter!  
**


	9. Growing Tension

Desolas smiled triumphantly as he watched the human being escorted onto the bridge in handcuffs. The man still looked a little woozy from the shot of medi-gel he'd received, but otherwise he seemed in good shape. That is, for being a prisoner extracted from a warzone. The elder Arterius had heard about the wound the human had received, but wasn't that worried about it. That had been dealt with. What troubled him was the data they'd pulled off the computers and their inability to access it. It was clear the information was important; it had been heavily encrypted and locked "to all nonessential personnel". Desolas fantasized what it could be: the blueprints for a weapon, maybe, or perhaps a stealth system. Maybe it was a new design for a ship. The possibilities were endless, really, and the man would tell him. He just had to be properly…persuaded.

But when he made eye-to-eye contact with his brown-haired prisoner, it was obvious that the human was going to be difficult. There was nothing but defiance in those eyes. One of Desolas' mandibles twitched, the subconscious response to his rapidly fluctuating emotions. He took a deep, slow breath, composed himself. He was the master of the situation, and he'd make sure the human knew it.

Desolas motioned for the guard to move away. He wanted this to be between him and the prisoner only. The general stepped forward, his armored form looming head and shoulders over his captive. The Arterius line had always been tall, and Desolas was taller than most of his family. The sheer physical differences between turians and humans was sometimes enough to make especially cowardly prisoners melt down. But the human just glared at him, scowling almost straight up. Not very menacing, perhaps, but a show of sheer bullheadedness. Desolas respected that. Officers should be tough enough to face an enemy that was bigger than them without cowering. It was fatal to have a spineless weakling commanding the troops. But in the end his job would only be made harder because of it.

"So, pyjak," he addressed the prisoner, using the word for a vermin that looked something like a cross between an Earth mouse and a monkey, "do you have a name?"

"None of your business."

"But that's precisely what I intend to discuss. Humor me."

The prisoner simply glared at him. "You first, skull-face."

Desolas snorted, mandibles flaring in a cool smile. "How should I introduce myself? Should you call me the victor of Shanxi?" He bent towards the human. "Or the Grim Reaper? You know the Earth legend; even I've heard of it. Do you have any idea how many humans have died at my order? There has been a rumor passed around that I'm close to the top of the Alliance kill list. Is it true?"

"I don't know you. I'm not sure who you think you are, but you don't impress me."

Desolas circled the man, dragging a hand over the man's shoulders. His talons scratched the human's soft skin. "I am General Desolas Arterius. And the only reason I haven't killed you by now is that I want information."

He caught the flicker of recognition and astonishment in the man's eyes when he told the man his name, despite the captive's best attempts to hide it.

"Ah, so you _do _know me." His voice had lowered to a dangerous purr. "And you also know of my record. You know I'm willing to do whatever it takes, no matter the cost. That." He placed his talons under the human's chin and made him look into his face, "is precisely why you're going to tell me what I need to know. Because you know you will suffer unbearably otherwise."

The human pulled away from him, shaking his head. "You have no idea what you're getting into. Whatever's in that cavern down there…It's dangerous. Too dangerous. And it should stay buried."

Desolas leaned down, fascinated. "Oh, so there _is _something down there."

"I'm telling you not to go digging for it. We sealed the cavern for a reason. Don't do this."

"Show me what is in your computer logs. Then I will determine for myself whether I want to see this…thing…or not."

"I can't. The files are classified."

"Then I will access this object. And you are coming with me."

"Don't! The thing is demonic! It will kill me, and then it will kill you, and then reanimate the dead bodies and kill everyone else!"

Desolas waved a hand in dismissal, sure the human was half-mad and rambling. Reanimate dead bodies? What utter nonsense. He motioned to the guard, even as the human protested and begged for him to listen.

"Find somewhere quiet for our prisoner to cool his heels. We're going back down there, and we aren't leaving until we find out what he's seen."

"Desolas! Don't do this!"

The guard grabbed the human firmly under the arms, and the man struggled, shouting and pleading for his attention. Desolas ignored him, distracted by a chirping from his omni-tool.

"What is it, Saren? I'm busy." He snapped.

_"__I assure you this is important."_ Saren's voice was even sharper than usual. _"You need to get ahold of the commander immediately. Kandros is a biotic."_

"You are sure?"

_"_You _saw the flash of biotic energy she unleashed. More than that, though. The medic who treated her wound said she 'smelled' funny, something like hot metal and ozone. I've been around biotics before; I know what it feels like, and that woman is radiating power. She may have saved turian lives, but she's untrained, unskilled. And you've seen what happens when poor control meets that sort of strength. Ask the medic or a member on the strike team. They all have either seen or felt it."_

"Very well, Saren. I will contact the head of the cabal infantry and see if I can get someone over here to confirm your suspicions. In the meantime, keep them between your teeth. We're going to be going up against unknown odds, and I won't have division among my crew. Is that understood, Admiral?"

Saren hissed and ended the conversation. Normally this would have annoyed the general. His younger brother was blatantly disrespectful towards him often enough for Desolas to tell whether or not he was being slighted. This was not one of those times. His behavior puzzled Desolas. He'd never seen his brother so agitated. Why was he insistent on getting Kandros out of the way? Was she dangerous? If she was really a biotic, then she definitely could pose a threat. But his brother was cunning and sly. The admiral did things for his own reasons, manipulating people so subtly they didn't even realize he was using them. It was one of the reasons that he was such a brilliant strategist.

Desolas retired to the map room, thinking. And there was still the problem of his human captive to deal with. He had nothing to go on with this human, not a single piece of data that wasn't encoded. The human could be lying. This was most likely the case; humans were known to spin great long untruths, myths that they perpetuated to save their own skins. But he had seemed afraid enough when Desolas had told him he was going to be dragged along with his turian captors. If he wanted to save his skin so badly, he'd spill before they touched down. And if the troops found nothing, Desolas swore to himself that the man would die, long and slow, and that in his last breaths he would tell Desolas the truth. But that was to be saved as a last resort only, if their searching proved fruitless.

Though this fight had only been estimated to last a few days, Desolas got the sudden feeling that, with all the unsolved problems popping up, he was going to need a more permanent base of operations than the cruiser. The deadline for leaving had just been extended.

**A/N: This one took a little longer to write than expected. Hope you still enjoyed it, though! Though I admit that is is a little odd moving from character to character, I feel like I can tell the story better this way. Next chapter will shift back to my first person. Thank you to all who have followed, favorited, or reviewed! (Especially the reviews!)**

**And yes, I do keep changing the description of this story, but what can I tell you? It just evolves on its own. **

**Lastly: this is the farthest I have ever gotten in a story. Couldn't have done it without you, and of course the hard work of BioWare and Drew Karpyshyn!**


	10. Ignorance is Bliss

The floppy straw sunhat hangs almost in my eyes as I kneel in the dirt, digging spiny weeds from the garden. I wonder where the matriarch got such a ridiculous hat; would one honestly be able to survive the long journey through the mass relay, make its way across a battlefield unscathed, and finally wind up on Palaven? And, honestly, who brought those sorts of things with them? I mean, out of anything you chose to bring with you to alien planets, you pick a _straw sunhat? _The total bizarreness of the situation is matched by gratitude: there _is _sun on Palaven; and plenty of it. The hat protects my neck from being fried to a crisp by the Palaven sun, at least mostly. If I want to go outside for more than five minutes, I have to cover myself in so much sunscreen it turns my skin an entire shade whiter. My mistress has somehow managed to procure said sunscreen for us humans, but still I have to wear the anti-radiation med dispenser. I hate the thing: it's awkward and gets in the way. The wide metal bracelet also reminds me entirely too much of handcuffs, which I have become uncomfortably familiar with over the past few days.

I pause in my digging to wipe the sweat off my face. _Oh yes. And did I mention how hot it was working in the midday Palaven sun? _The thermometer has to be pushing ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, easily. And with the sun's rays beating down, it's only going to get hotter as the day goes on. The matriarch has kept us very, very busy, insistent that the place be perfect for the guests she says are coming today. We barely have time to eat our mismatched meals before we have to go back to work. Over the past four days, she's had us clean the whole house, top to bottom, every room, every piece of furniture, every last one of the sparse but artful decorations scattered around the mansion. I was assigned to do the library(again), and noticed the door to the study is now locked properly, with a basic security code system in place of the outdated key lock. It has me wondering what in there could be so important that she went and switched the locks after I unwittingly intruded. A mystery indeed.

After four days straight of inside work, she suddenly banished all three of us to the gardens. I think she may want to keep us out of the way. Perhaps the guests will be upset by our presence, but I have the feeling that she's not going to be able to hide three humans from sight for a week. What happens when the visiting turians and us collide remains to be seen, but I hope I'm far away when it happens.

Syrec shouldered his bag and limped up the front steps, his leg aching. The thick door of the mansion that was his grandmother's beckoned, promising safety and a much-needed break. Spirits, he needed one after what he'd been through. After being put on leave for sustaining a rather serious injury, he'd been bored out of his mind waiting for the wound to heal enough so that he could finally get out of the house. Being home was nice, but being stuck inside for a week…not so much.

But getting out of the house also came with baggage, specifically the presence of his father and mother watching him as if he were as careless as his six-year-old younger brother. What was he going to do, slash his own leg open again? Really. He had more sensibility than that. His mother and father knew it, and still they insisted on treating him like a child. He knew they were worried about him, but sometimes it just got annoying. He sighed to himself, mandibles fluttering. Might as well try to enjoy himself while he was here. He raised a fist to knock on the door, but before his hand could make contact, it was pulled open from inside, and in the door's place stood a familiar figure.

_"__Grandma!"_

The squeal was from Damieas, Syrec's little brother. He felt himself being pushed aside as his little brother, thrilled at seeing his grandmother, shoved past him and practically jumped into the old matriarch's arms. Arashe beamed back at the young boy clinging to her leg, then reached out and pulled Syrec into a hug. He was alarmed by how fragile she seemed. He knew she didn't have long for this world, but it still wouldn't make her death any less painful.

"Oh, my boy. You have grown a lot since I last saw you." She touched her forehead to his.

"You haven't aged a day, Grandmother," he responded, returning the turian gesture of affection in kind. She laughed lightly, her mandibles fluttering.

"You flatter me, child. But don't just stand there; come in. You must tell me everything that has gone on since you went into the military."

She moved aside, letting him step into the spacious living room. Damieas charged past him, found the largest leather armchair he could, and began bouncing on it. His mother swept past the aging matriarch and snatched her errant child from the armchair, scolding him sharply. Syrec perched awkwardly on the low sofa, dropping his bag next to him on the floor. His mother settled next to him, holding the impatient youngster on her lap. The old matriarch seated herself across from them, her attention on the young soldier.

"So, I imagine you have quite the tale."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know…If patching up wounded and shooting the occasional human counts, then I guess so…but there's not really much to tell. Most of the specifics are classified anyway. Comes with being military information."

The old matriarch's mandibles drooped in mock disappointment. "Too bad. I guess I'll just have to let you run off, then. Come back in time for dinner, all right?"

He nodded, grateful for a chance to escape the onerous duty of having to talk about his experiences, and stood. His mother stopped him.

"Keep an eye on your brother, would you?"

He sighed. Not so lucky as to escape babysitting, then. Damieas jumped down from his mother's lap, grabbed his brother's hand, and even before they were out of sight of the adults, began to try to get answers out of his older brother. Syrec gave a longer, more exasperated sigh as his brother begged to hold his pistol.

"No, you can't touch my Striker."

"But why?" came the inevitable question.

"Because Mother said so, that's why. It's dangerous, and I don't want you getting hurt."

They passed a set of doors, old glass doors with archaic hinges, and immediately his younger brother's questions changed.

"Can we go out into the gardens?"

"After I put my bag somewhere safe."

"Leave it here? Please?"

"I…okay. Just don't touch it." There wasn't anyone around who wanted to steal from him, was there? The bag should be perfectly safe.

"I won't."

Syec dropped his luggage by the door and strode out onto the veranda. There was a large brick patio, and then a sun garden that slowly merged into a veritable mini-forest, all carefully cultivated and lovingly paved. His brother ran on ahead, playing with the turian fighter model his parents had gotten for him and making utterly ridiculous engine noises. Syrec shook his head, grinning at his little brother's innocent ignorance. Damieas loved the ships and practically anything that flew; he'd be a good pilot someday. Right now, though, the kid was young and carefree, just happy running around in his grandmother's…

He froze, his attention caught by something out-of-place. Between the leaves of some broad-leaved foliage was a shoeprint. A human shoeprint. Alarmed, he reeled back to find his brother had gone missing. He spun around, mandibles flared in a snarl.

"Damieas!" He shouted. "DAMIEAS!"

No response.

His hand flew to his side, but his pistol was not there. Cursing himself for not being properly prepared, he pulled out his knife, the only weapon he had on him and ran after his little brother the best he could, gritting his teeth with every other step. He could feel the newly-regrown tissue tearing at each step, the wound reopening and starting to bleed again. But he had to find his brother. There were humans around and that was bad news.

His ears picked up the sound of a voice, and he rounded a trellis to find a human on its knees, reaching for his brother, who seemed to not be able to move, one hand held out to the human. He snarled and charged, shoving his brother behind him and bowling the human over backward. He raised the knife, intent on the kill, but the human yelped something that was regurgitated in his own language.

"Stop!"

He halted the descent of his knife, instead seizing the human by the throat and slamming its head into the paving stones.

"You don't touch my brother!" He hissed, livid.

"Please!" the human whimpered in gasps, sounding terrified. "I didn't hurt… him! Look!" It opened its hand and the model of the turian fighter fell to the flagstones. "We were…just playing!"

He felt a hand grasping at the shoulder of his shirt.

"Let go, 'rec. It's nice to me. It sings. Let go." The use of his nickname was enough to snap him out of his fury. He stood, casting a venomous look at the human lying on the walk, rubbing its throat, and turned to his brother.

"Are you all right, Damieas? It didn't hurt you, did it?" He looked the boy up and down, not convinced he wasn't injured.

His brother shook his head, eyes wide and honest. "No. I was just showing it my ship."

"Really?" His tone was skeptic.

"Yes. See?" Damieas walked over, and without hesitation, picked the model up right out of the human's grasp, proffering it to his older brother. "See?" He pressed, pushing the model right into his brother's hand. Syrec blinked down at the toy, then cast another look at the human.

"Why are you here?" he growled, bearing down on it again. "You aren't welcome here."

"I…I was captured and brought here. As a quellen."

That brought him up short. He'd forgotten about the wartime tradition of keeping captured civilians from the opposing side as servants. The turians hadn't done something like that since before the Krogan Rebellions. He glared down at the human, whom he now recognized as female.

" Whatever your reason for being here, stay away from my brother."

She nodded. "I'll try, but I can't promise…" Her eyes locked onto his leg. "You're bleeding."

He wiped at the thin ribbon of blood running down his leg, growling in frustration.

"Come on, Damieas. Let's go."

The young turian paused for a moment, looking back at the female human.

"Bye." He chirped, sounding a little disappointed.

The human made an odd facial expression reminiscent of a mandible-flare. Syrec snorted and grabbed his little brother's hand, pulling him back toward the house.

"Don't go near those humans. Understand?"

"But they're nice!"

"I don't care. I want you to promise me you won't go near them without myself, Mother, or Father watching."

"But…"

"Promise me!"

His brother squirmed. "I promise."

"I just want to keep you safe, little brother. If anyone or anything hurts you, I would never forgive myself."

"Can we stay out and play?"

"Not now." His injury was aching like crazy, and he knew he'd need to re-bandage the wound. He led his brother back inside, scooping up his bag. Something felt slightly off about its weight, though he couldn't be sure what.

"Go ask your grandma to show you the library, all right? I'll meet you in a moment."

Damieas raced off. He found the bathroom and dropped his bag onto the floor, opening it and pulling out a basic first-aid kit. As he looked down, though, he realized the problem and quickly upturned his luggage, dumping everything out onto the floor in a pile. He dug through the mess, frantic, tearing apart his perfectly folded stacks of clothing, then froze, swallowing hard. _No. No. It couldn't be. _

Someone had taken his pistol and both ammo clips.

**A/N: This chapter was maddening to write, but I hope it came out okay. I have made revisions to chapter 6 to accommodate the story line. Like I said, this thing evolves on its own. Tell me if you like it.**

**To be continued...**


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